


achilles, come down

by honeyyhop



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Pain, dream team, i couldn't resist i'm sorry, this was not meant to be a three day project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyhop/pseuds/honeyyhop
Summary: "where you goi'm goingso jump and i'm jumpingsince there is no me without you"- achilles come down, gang of youthsit’s not about the money anymore.when notorious assassin sapnap flings himself into fire to battle his oldest friend, a half-stray, a runaway, and enemy, he’s not in it for the reward - he’s in it to watch dream die.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	achilles, come down

**Author's Note:**

> the self is not so weightless  
> nor whole and unbroken  
> remember the pact of our youth
> 
> Warning: This story contains mild themes of violence.

At nine and ten, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins meet for the first time in a makeshift camp in the depths of the desert, desperate and hungry. There are many rumours and misconceptions about Strays, and Sapnap has heard them all - most of which from his father. 

Most are certain that Strays are born from wind and ice and  _ shadow,  _ in the darkest crevices of Winter itself, and doomed to wander the frost-bitten plains for the rest of their miserable lives. Only a few know that Strays are made,  _ created  _ from human skins when the cold becomes too much for their souls, and they turn against their will. They don’t lose their humanity - if anything, they  _ feel  _ even more than usual. 

Some say that Strays are cursed to be solitary, and to never set foot out of their icy prisons, but that’s a lie built from cities intent on keeping them out. Strays gather in groups, and are nothing more than half-dead travellers - harmless, for the most part, unless they choose not to be. 

Sapnap sends his bucket down into the dark well, his palms red from the burn of the rope, feeling eyes watching him. His father asked him to collect water for the party, and so he obeys, keeping his amber eyes fixed on the task at hand. He slowly becomes aware of a new gaze on him, one that sends a shiver skittering down his spine, and lifts his chin slightly; he grips the stone wall so tightly his knuckles go white. 

Like a fool, he turns his head slightly to look at the boy leaning against the cobbled well.

At first glance, it’s merely a curious human child from the camp. But the longer Sapnap stares, the more his pale skin shimmers slightly silver and grey in the sunlight, the more his dirty blond hair seems white, and he becomes aware that the thick coat he has fastened around his shoulders is a wolf pelt, despite the heat that beats down on their backs. One of his eyes is the delicate green of Springtime - the other is a harsh, unforgiving Winter. 

“Didn’t your Ma ever teach you not to stare?” 

“You’re the one staring at me,” Sapnap snaps quickly, instantly bristling. “What, you don’t like my face or somethin’?” 

“I’m staring cause  _ you’re  _ staring.” 

“No, I-” Sapnap realises that he’s caught in a loop of arguing, and hastily tries to focus on drawing the bucket back up to him. 

“Got something against Strays, do you?” 

“ _ Stray?”  _ Sapnap pauses, once again, to take in the stranger, eyes wide in dismay. 

Somewhat sheepishly, rippling with defensiveness, the kid says, “ _ half _ Stray. My Ma is a Stray. What, do you think I look  _ odd,  _ is that it?” 

“I’ve never met a Stray,” he says solemnly, and it’s the truth. In the Assassin’s Keep, his father has kept him well protected from dangers that lurk outside the walls, and in the meantime has given him the tools to disable them himself. At ten, he already knows how to defend himself from any threat that may present itself, now that his father trusts him to come with him on business trips outside the city. If the Stray child notices how Sapnap holds his feet ready to lunge, his hands already drifting towards a tiny knife hidden under his cloak, he doesn’t comment on it. 

With a final tug, he retrieves his bucket, trying not to spill any water, but his eyes still shy away from his task, back to the child, now sitting on the well with his legs swinging. “Well, now you have. Who  _ are  _ you? Why are you wearing that silly cloak and that stupid knife?” 

So Sapnap’s weapon  _ hadn’t  _ gone unnoticed. He flushes slightly. “I’m Sapnap. I’m…” He hesitates. “I’m an assassin.” 

The kid barks out a laugh, wheezing slightly, slapping his knee. “An assassin! I’ve never met an assassin before!  _ Sapnap...  _ What, did you pick that yourself? You must have. Is that your  _ assassin’s  _ name?”

“Don’t you like assassins?” He seems defeated.

“I’m sure you’re great people when you aren’t killing for coin.” 

“Well, I don’t, not yet. I’m the heir, so I won’t start doing jobs til’ I’m… around fourteen.” 

“What does  _ that  _ mean?” He’s surprised enough to press his wheezing into light, crackling giggles, allowing Sapnap to steal a shred of his confidence back. “As in… like, assassin  _ royalty?”  _

“Something like that.” 

The kid’s laughter stops. “Oh. Do I have to, like,  _ bow?”  _

“Um, no.” 

“Good, cause I don’t want to.” 

For a moment, neither of them speak, and then Sapnap allows himself a faint giggle. There’s something both irritating and amusing about the defiant, bitter child that stares him down, with playful eyes and a cold grin.

He’s staring again.

“Sapnap! We’re  _ leaving.”  _ His father’s voice snaps him out of his trance and he spins, water dripping down the sides of his bucket from the momentum. He flashes the Stray stranger an awkward look, shrugs, and tries his best to balance the bucket as he walks in defeat back to the safety of his father. 

“Hey, wait! Don’t ya want to know  _ my  _ name?” 

He turns to look over his shoulder, grinning. “No.” 

“Dream,” the Stray says without waiting for permission, swinging his legs. “My name is Dream.”

_ Dream... _

He tries not to think about the half-stray boy as he walks away. His father only chains him to the ground with a cool, unforgiving glare. “Don’t talk to Strays. They’re nothing but trouble. Thieves and criminals, the lot of them.”

“But that one wasn’t so bad,” Sapnap protests lightly. “I didn’t need my knife.”

“Not while he’s young, you don’t. But everyone grows up, child.” 

Sapnap risks a glance over his shoulder, and Dream isn’t looking in his direction in the slightest. As he watches, the Stray child scampers off to investigate a mound in the sand. His father monitors Sapnap’s gaze darkly. 

“Nothing but trouble,” he repeats. His expression softens as he looks at his son. “You still have plenty to learn, Sapnap. Plenty of the world to see.” 

“I’ve seen a lot,” he protests. 

“Not enough,” his father says.  _ “Not enough.” _

  
  


* * *

At ten and eleven, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins catch each other’s eye in the marketplace. It’s Sapnap’s city - and already, so young, he feels like he owns it. It’s  _ his  _ to wander, free and unrivalled. At eleven, he’s too big for his boots - at eleven, he runs the streets in his own naive mind. His cloak is blood red and too large for him, trailing in a pool behind his feet, and he’s trying not to trip over it as he walks through the markets. This place, stinking of greed and envy and anger, it was built for him, the child of an assassin who thinks he deserves everything this city has to offer him and more.

From across the street, Sapnap happens to glance towards a stall, where a wolf pelt shields dirty white hair, and stops. He hears a young, high voice encouraging the merchant to bring out an expensive knife, its hilt engraved with an old language and jewelled with gemstones.

That single glance must hold weight, because the boy feels it and looks over his shoulder, and those eyes are just as Sapnap remembers them, with a flash of childlike delight - one green, one blue. 

The boy’s head cocks slightly, as if daring him to say something; his silver fingers seize the handle of the knife and tug it to his chest.

Dream bolts.

It’s not Sapnap’s responsibility - he’s an assassin in training, now, and not affiliated with any sense of  _ justice  _ or  _ law.  _ There’ll come a day when he kills for money - so he shouldn’t exactly be concerned about any kind of thievery.

To be fair, it’s not the stolen knife he’s curious about, but rather the young boy wielding it. 

He runs. It’s a struggle to keep up with Dream - he’s faster than he looks, and nimble enough to weave through busy streets with ease, while Sapnap has more trouble navigating his cloak than the streets themselves, but he manages to keep the child’s white hair bobbing within his sights. 

As Dream ducks into a secluded, skinny alley to lean against the wall, Sapnap bursts in after him and pauses to place his hands on his knees, panting.

“Hi.”

“Oh.” Dream seems poised to run, but straightens. “You.”

“You recognise me, then?” Something in him is delighted that, even after a year, their encounter was meaningful enough for Dream to remember him.

“Your clothes changed, but you’re still just another scruffy child assassin - but yes. I do, I think. Are you murdering yet?”

“Are  _ you?”  _

“That’s a myth. Strays aren’t like zombies - we don’t have an overpowering urge to kill unless it’s necessary.” The kid looks Sapnap up and down. “I don’t think you’ve killed anyone yet.”

“I don’t reckon you even remember my name.” 

“Sapnap.” He freezes, and Dream flashes white teeth. “I ain’t dumb. But you  _ haven’t  _ killed anyone, have you?” 

After a heartbeat of hesitation where he debates lying, he finally mutters, “how can you tell? You’re… strangely observant.” 

“I don’t think you’d chase me if you were a real killer.” 

“Says who!?” 

“Says my instincts. Besides, I can just tell. Just a Stray thing.”

“Half-stray.”

Dream blinks in surprise. “You remember.” 

“I mean, yeah.” His eyes wander to the kid’s small hands. “Why’d you nick the knife?” 

“Er… it’s pretty.”

“It’s  _ pretty?  _ You’re no better than a dragon.” 

“I don’t think you’ve ever even met a dragon.” 

“Have  _ you?”  _

“I mean, no... But I will.” 

For the first time, Sapnap notices a gleaming dark green eye in the center of the knife hilt. He swears the iris moves slightly - but he blinks, and it’s still, making him wonder if he imagined it. Dream notices, flushes, and tucks the weapon inside of his wolf pelt, where Sapnap is sure he has plenty of weapons and trinkets hidden away.

‘Wh-”

Angry shouts erupt from the end of the street and in a flash, Dream is climbing up the balcony hanging over their heads, peering down at Sapnap with a daring gleam in each eye. 

“Well? Are you coming, or not?” 

Sapnap hadn’t realised he was invited, but still, something in him hesitates. His father would want him back at the Keep to train, not running all over the city escaping from the law with a scrawny half-Stray boy. 

“Oh, come on, don’t you trust me?” Dream sticks out his hand for him to grab, his fingertips white.

Trust isn’t something that Sapnap is too familiar with yet. “I don’t  _ know  _ you.”

“Sure, you do. We met before.” Despite himself, he seems vaguely hurt. “Fine. Get yourself caught.” 

“Wait.” 

Sapnap doesn’t allow himself to think on the gesture too much as he grabs Dream’s hand and lets himself be hauled onto the balcony, scrabbling up and over the railing. Instantly, Dream is climbing onto the roof with ease, then gestures for Sapnap to follow. 

He crawls onto the tiles, puffing slightly, and is, despite himself, impressed by Dream’s agility as he prances to his feet eagerly. He’s no stranger to dangerous escapes, it seems - and even so young, he wonders how much, exactly, Dream has stolen. Although Sapnap  _ is  _ an assassin in training, so he can’t possibly judge the Stray boy. Below them, footsteps pound on the concrete, followed by hushed, confused murmurs. 

Dream grins. “What idiot doesn’t even think to look up?” 

And with that, he bursts into a run, and Sapnap scrambles after him. His first few steps on the tiles are wobbled, trying to find his balance, but watching the way that small, lithe Dream weaves himself from rooftop to rooftop, tumbling onto each surface with ease, he falls into an awkward rhythm. 

From Dream’s narrowed eyes, his pursed lips, Sapnap imagines he has to be concentrating to be able to land every leap with such grace, his arms pumping him into each precise, controlled movement. But then he glances to the side to look at Sapnap racing alongside him and grins wildly, unkempt, with a fierce  _ joy.  _

Dream isn’t running to survive, but rather… for  _ fun.  _

Sapnap, filled with a sense of childlike glee that he hasn’t felt in too long since his childhood was stripped from him to become an assassin, smiles back.

Jump. 

Fall. 

Land. 

And it’s the fall, he thinks, that makes the chase worth it, that single moment with every leap, the uncertainty that it could all come crashing down at any moments, suspended against the sky. It feels like flying, he thinks. 

His father, he reasons, would have to accept this kind of behaviour, because Sapnap is  _ technically  _ training. An assassin would know these roofs like a separate city, would have to use them as a personal weapon, a tool. Dream is only teaching him how to manipulate his endurance into something he can use. That’ll be his explanation, anyway.

For the moment, he doesn’t think of how his Father would feel if he knew Sapnap was prancing over the rooftops with Dream. He thinks of himself, and how, despite his heavy breathing, he doesn’t want to stop.

* * *

At thirteen and fourteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins make a promise to each other. Sapnap has been waiting for the moment to officially become an assassin for years - years of his childhood that he could have spent in more naive, free ways were spent training and planning for this future. He’s been working for this. Now, he just feels empty. 

For a year now, Dream and Sapnap have been bounding over the rooftops until they can’t breathe - Dream can usually last far longer than Sapnap, but they both end up on their backs, wheezing breathlessly, inevitably, anyway. 

It began as nothing but pure chance. After they parted following that second meeting, Sapnap kept lingering close to the marketplace, knowing that Dream would, logically, not return to where he stole the knife. It would be stupid. Reckless. 

Yet when he turned to leave, he found Dream leaning against a wall. Silently, he beckoned to Sapnap, and so they chased the sky once again. 

That afternoon, laying on his back under the Summer sun so that his skin turned grey, he explained that he was staying in the city for a while - without his Ma - half hiding from the law, half merely being free. Neither of them established that they were ever friends, or even liked the other, but when Sapnap went looking, again and again, he would find Dream, and it became an unspoken habit to search for him wherever he went walking. 

Sapnap would find his days filled with extra training, hours of enduring brutal exercises that his father claimed were absolutely necessary, although the worst was easily the real life simulations and scenarios.

_ What happens if you get caught? Kidnapped? _

_ What happens when one arm is broken?  _ And so his arm was shattered to prove a point - to learn how to manage his weapons just as well with his left hand.

_ What happens when your legs are broken?  _ His legs were never broken, thank God, but the thought was enough to instill a sense of paranoia within him. So many threats, outcomes, possibilities he had never even considered. So many ways for things to go wrong - but things aren’t as unpredictable with Dream, something that he is silently grateful for. 

Since his days were so full, he one day broke the gleeful silence to suggest meeting at night - and Dream didn’t protest, and so it was mutually assumed that they would see each other under the cover of darkness and bundles of stars. Running turned into conversations, and  _ civil  _ ones at that, something that was perhaps even more surprising. 

Night after night, it became a habit. Something for him to look forward to. 

Now, it’s the night before his fourteenth birthday - and tomorrow, he will be an assassin. Tomorrow, he finds his place in the Keep, without Dream.

“You know,” he says, so tentative. “You could always train.”

“Train… you mean… like you?” His eyebrows raise, clearly surprised. “As in, getting my bones broken?”

He spent months with one arm bandaged and occasionally in a sling, teeth gritted in pain and somewhat drowsy from medication. Dream wouldn’t forget what Sapnap has endured so quickly. They both have dangerously good memories. “Well, you know, that’s only a minor detail. There’s so many  _ wonderful  _ moments I think you’d enjoy. Plus...” 

“Why do I have a feeling you’re about to say  _ ‘the money’ _ ,” Dream says dryly. 

“The money definitely would make things worth it.” He’s laughing, but his eyes cling to Dream, even as he turns his head away, quietly praying. For months, now, as a teenager, he’s come to terms with what he wants. His future doesn’t lie in the Keep, in killing. “But… I dunno. It’d be cool to have you around, now that I’m actually graduating.” 

“It’s been a long time coming,” Dream muses, clearly dodging the question. “Now you finally get to break other people’s arms instead of your own! Joyous occasion, huh?” 

“Oh, _ boy!” _ His laughter is high against the quiet night. “Finally! If I ever have the misfortune of seeing that  _ George  _ kid again, he might be my first victim!”

They share brief laughter at that, bathing in the memory of Sapnap, absolutely livid, ranting at the top of his lungs about the new kid months prior who could effortlessly hold the attention of any instructor in the room. 

Dream called him jealous, and Sapnap smacked his arm.

Dream’s laughter falters slightly. “I mean, I guess you could always just  _ ask  _ your father if… just explain to him…”

“I don’t see my father letting me go anytime soon. And besides… I can’t really see you joining the Keep. Not really.” It’s a shame to say it aloud, as if that makes it any less real. 

“Your father would sooner kill me than let me in those halls. I’m happier… away from here.” 

Just like that, the night is suddenly cold and bitter as Dream turns to him. “Sapnap. You’re going to be very busy at the Keep now.”

“Yes.” He hates it. Dream has opened his eyes to his young, childish priorities.

“Well… I don’t think I’m going to stick around for much longer. I have things I gotta do.” 

“You’re leaving?” 

“In the next week, I’m going. I… I have a plan.”

And that’s just it. He turns, and whilst he never usually touches Dream, his hand suddenly rests on his forearm. “I want to go.” 

His breath comes out in a grey cloud, trying to find the words. “I’m gonna run away.” 

Dream just looks at him helplessly. “No, you’re not.” 

“With you.” 

“No, I…” He looks away. “I can’t let you do that. Not that I don’t want you with me - I do, trust me on that. But… this isn’t something I can do with someone else.” 

“Sure, it is.” 

“Sapnap.” Dream meets his gaze. “I’m chasing legends and stories, here, not something _real._ This… this ain’t tangible, here. I’m hunting something to let me rule the world as I see fit.” 

“What kind of stories?” 

“Well… have you ever heard tales of the End?” 

“I was raised on them. What, you don’t think…?” 

“I think it’s real. In fact, I’m sure of it. There’s artifacts, journals - scraps of diary entries from my family, passed from generation to generation, those legends - they speak of precious treasure, a hidden city beyond our mortal sights, and a beast guarding it all. I just didn’t come here for a mere vacation.”

Sapnap figured as such, but he inclines his head, inviting Dream to continue. His eyes are round with eagerness, transfixed on him and his tales. They’re wild - but so is Dream. It’s not so much of a stretch to believe that he wants to chase a world beyond the realm they know so well. They’re only teenagers, after all; it’s only natural for them to want to explore, to want to find the truth.

“I came here hunting for… objects… keys that will unlock the End.”

“So it  _ is  _ real?” 

“I think so. I’m not one to pray - but God, Sapnap, I’m praying for it to be real. I don’t have all the keys -” 

“Keys that aren’t in this city.” 

“Keys that are far away from here. I think… I need to go deeper.” 

Sapnap makes a face. “Wha…?”

“To another place. Other worlds. They’re out there, waiting for me, and Hell, I have to find them.” 

Sapnap’s round, eager gaze has shattered, slightly, his shoulders slumping. “And once you have the keys, you’ll go… what, to the End?” 

“No. I’ll come back.”

“Back…?” 

“For  _ you,  _ dummy, what do you think? I’m not taking you to get the keys, but…” His gaze burns. “I can’t just leave you behind while I explore the legendary End, now, can I?”

Neither of them are incredibly touchy people, but in an instant, Sapnap seizes Dream and hugs him, hands squeezing his back. When Dream grips him, his fingers are cold, his cheek against his neck like a flash of frost-bite. “Yeah?”

  
“Yeah.” 

After a beat of silence, he steps back, running his hands through his hair awkwardly, unable to stop his childish grin. “I never said thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“Everything.” 

Dream is understandably startled, but manages a brief laugh. “That’s okay. You know, you’re not so bad for an assassin.” 

“And you’re not exactly what I imagined a Stray boy to be like, either.”

With a hand, he reaches into his coat and draws out a dirty, cracked pocket watch, and watches it move intently.

“How’d you get that? Don’t you need redstone? And that's  _ expensive  _ \- did you steal it?” 

“No, it’s an early birthday present from father.” He lifts it close to his face, squinting in the darkness.

“How long?”

“Six minutes.” His voice is hushed. In six short minutes, he’ll be fourteen. In six short minutes, everything will change.

Hastily, he turns to Dream, gripping his wrist. “Promise me. Promise you’ll come back for me.” 

Dream laughs. “Okay, okay, I promise.” 

“No, like you mean it. Promise you won’t leave me behind.”

He watches the Stray boy’s white hair glowing in the moonlight, one green eye dim, one blue one like the glow of a lantern. Watches his gaze harden. 

“I promise, Sapnap.”

With aching hearts, they count the remaining minutes, and without it even meaning to, Dream takes Sapnap’s hand and squeezes.

  
  


* * *

At fourteen and fifteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins have already been separated for a year. 

The days pass by in a blur. Sapnap receives a new cloak - but this time, it’s measured to fit him. He doesn’t trip over the black pooling at his boots. It’s sleek, and dark, and subtle, and it feels like a damnation. He’s thrown into a new class of assassins, all with the same naive faces and young eyes as Sapnap, all vying for the attention of their instructors. All praying to be noticed, all trying to stand out just to be selected for a mission. He sees George, with his clean dark hair and goggles tucked behind his ears, the same boy he ranted to Dream about only months ago, every day in the arena, and fights him with everything he has. Their banter is quick, and easy, and familiar. 

It feels like an old friend. 

Sapnap stops looking at George after that, never wants his eyes on anyone that isn’t someone who isn’t chasing the sky with him. It doesn’t feel right. Although, before long, a new figure lingers close to him, quiet and solemn. When Sapnap burns with his insults and loud laughter - all traits that he stole from Dream, thieving the things he admired most about him - a boy with fluffy brown hair is cool and calming, rarely even speaking, somewhat younger than him. It takes Sapnap weeks to even give him more than a second glance, realising that the stranger is subtly trying to watch him, learn from him. 

Although he doesn’t talk to the boy with a cat tail and ears, he sometimes angles himself so that his shadow can see what he’s doing more clearly. Part of him enjoys the attention, as if he’s someone to admire. His skills  _ are  _ envied - his reputation, by now, is decent. He doesn’t mind the Keep, mostly because when he’s so busy training, his father can’t bother him, and he can’t wonder what Dream is doing. 

_ He probably has dozens of keys by now, the lucky bastard. _

He starts to watch the catboy - or whatever he is - training, and begins to realise that he’s skilled. Resourceful, a quick thinker, diligent. He keeps his head down, and no one bothers him. And, Sapnap discovers one afternoon staying late to train and peeking around a half-closed door, the kid knows  _ magic. _

He begins to think that this could be useful.

Later in the year, Sapnap finally finds his confidence, enough to walk up to the boy and stick out his hand. “Sapnap,” he says.

“Oh.” The kid hesitates, then shakes his hand, dipping his head awkwardly. “Ant. I’m Ant.” 

“‘Sup. You’re good, Ant. Why haven’t you been sent away yet?” 

“I dunno. I guess I just… er, fly under the radar.”

“That’s a crime if I ever heard one.” He grins, keeping his voice hushed. “So…  _ Ant... _ how’d you learn magic?”

Ant flushes, and turns his face away. He lifts a staff in one hand, saying pointedly, “Do you need a partner…?”

It’s an invitation to talk someplace more private, and Sapnap agrees quickly, and their low voices and suspicious eyes covered by heavy breathing and intense concentration, they continue - or rather, Sapnap interrogates Ant as best he can.

  
“It’s a family thing,” Ant says. “I learned how to make potions when I was young, but anyone can do that with the right training. I.. can do a little bit more than that.” 

  
“What’s the most powerful thing you can do?”

“I haven’t tried anything particularly notable, yet.” The implication is clear that he will, one day, that he wants to and is proud of his own skills.

“Does your whole family have ears and a tail like you do?”

“No, no, I…” He looks down sheepishly. “I cursed myself accidentally as a baby, and… well… no one seems to be able to reverse it.” 

Sapnap takes the opportunity to knock Ant’s legs out from under him, sending him tumbling to the floor. He grits his teeth and hauls himself back up.

“So you were powerful enough as a baby to give yourself cat ears and a tail and not be able to reverse it… I wonder what you could do now…”

“I don’t want to try anything  _ too  _ big in the Keep,” Ant hisses, swinging his staff into Sapnap’s gut when he isn’t paying attention, perhaps simply to stop him from asking too many unwanted questions. “Although I’m sure it’d be useful, I don’t really want to be sought after just for my magic. That’s not all I’m good at.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. You have a good work ethic, you know how to handle your weapons, and the like. All I’m saying is that you should be proud of this magic thing. It sounds cool.” 

Ant bobs his head in thanks. 

__

Although he doesn’t plan to spend so much time with Ant, they continue to pair together in training sessions. Despite himself, he’s already assessing the boy’s skills, his talents, his strengths and weaknesses. He doesn’t want to analyse him or use him, but it feels like he’s gathering valuable assets. It feels as if he’s  _ planning  _ for something.

He just doesn’t know what yet.

Something tells him to stay close. 

* * * 

A city nobleman hires assassins to kill his political rival and make it out without a trace, and the Keep delivers. It’s Sapnap’s first mission, and he’s paired with a kid he’s only ever seen from afar - he supposes that’s for a reason. When a brown haired boy with sharp glasses, always hiding himself in a thick, dark cloak, years older than Sapnap, sticks his hand out for him to shake, Sapnap wonders how he has kept so silent for so many years.

This kid is made of shadows and silence, something precious and valuable for an assassin, and Sapnap is impressed - despite his best efforts to not actively search for allies, he knows that this one is useful. Just as much as Ant. 

“Call me Bad,” the boy says. “Are you ready for your first job?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he says solemnly, and as they walk down the lonely hallway, Bad unfastens his hood and shakes his hair out, revealing small dark horns. 

“You- you-” 

Bad flashes him a confused look. “What?” 

“You… you're-” 

“Oh,  _ this _ . Don’t worry about it.” His smile is wide. “I’m, uh… I’m half-demon.” 

Which is far too similar to half-Stray for Sapnap’s liking. But he has no choice but to follow Bad, to sit quietly and complacently while the older boy briefs him on the task at hand and it hits Sapnap for the first time that he is going to kill for money. The thought is tangible now. It’s real. Dream spent months teasing him in anticipation of such moments, saying that Sapnap was never meant to be an assassin because he’s not nearly stealthy enough. He loves the thrill of battle, the rush of a fight, not hiding and waiting for opportunities to stumble across his path. It’s true, of course, but he would never give Dream the satisfaction of being right, and so he spends every day trying to prove him otherwise. If he’s going to be stuck in the Keep, he might as well be good at what he does.

“Sapnap!” 

He jumps, seeing Bad staring at him with head tilted from across the table. “Are you listening?” 

Sapnap can only imagine his faraway look, lost in his thoughts of the scraps of childhood he found on the rooftops. “Uh, yes.”

“Then what did I just say?” 

“Uh… definitely something about murder, yes. Absolutely.”

“Sapnap, please, you gotta concentrate.” His expression softens. “I know you’re tired. But if you can’t handle the mission…” 

“I can handle it,” he snaps, and he can. He will. 

He reminds himself of what he’s fighting for. Dream will come back for him - he only has to survive until then. If it takes a few missions, a few deaths, to secure that for himself, then so be it. Besides, he’ll be paid handsomely. 

Sapnap’s eyes go round when he thinks of the gold he’ll be able to hoard, all of it going towards his future as a runaway with Dream. It makes the murder worth it. He grins.

_ I’ll handle it,  _ he thinks to himself, and he  _ does. _

When he slips into the manor of the nobleman doomed to die on a wicked, silent night, following the lead of Bad as he silently pads down the hallway, pressing himself against the wall, he’s ready. The pair of them are wreathed in black. Sapnap’s stealth isn’t exactly a point of strength for him, but he’s passable. Most of it is down to nothing but prayer and luck, and praying that none of the servants passing by bother to look too hard at the creases of the halls, the small crevices and alcoves where the pair fold themselves into the shadows and stay completely, utterly still, waiting for the halls to go silent. There’s some dinner happening downstairs, and they hear gleeful music floating up to them. It covers their footsteps when they move, bounding slightly to avoid the risk of creaking floorboards. It’s also a convenient distraction, pulling so many witnesses away from where they could accidentally catch a glance of two silent killers.

They slip into the politician’s room unchallenged. 

And it’s there that Bad takes Sapnap’s hand to curl his fingers around a wicked, gleaming dagger, his expression unreadable. A thread of uncertainty grasps him. He had always assumed that Bad, being his superior, the leader, the strategist, would take the kill; Sapnap was only there for support, even if his heart now roars for blood, if he wants to take control and prove himself. 

Bad merely nods. At first glance, Sapnap assumed that Bad was too kind, too gentle to be an assassin. But he’s got a spark in him, a light that refuses to die. There are moments when that kindness overshadows it - and this is one of them. 

He merely mouths his ‘ _ thank you’,  _ unable to put into words how grateful he is that Bad understands, somehow, how much this first achievement means to him. 

He chains his human emotions to the sky. No guilt or shame will drag him down today. Not when Dream is waiting for him. 

With that same dagger, he slits the politician’s throat, and only pauses for a moment to watch the dark blood erupt from his neck. He doesn’t even make a noise save for a tight gurgle. It’s so quiet. 

So still.

From the darkness, Bad whispers, “we gotta go.” 

“Yeah.” He can’t tell if it’s satisfaction or dread that chokes him. “I know” 

* * *

At fifteen, the son of a Stray is alone. 

In a cold, lonely dungeon, he shivers into his wolf pelt, the one he has never abandoned through all of his childhood. His body is cold enough for him to barely feel any heat anymore, but when he ventures into the Winter, he’s trapped by his own skin. His hair can pass for blond, sometimes, but today it’s nothing but soulless white, pale and unforgiving. 

From the end of the cave, he hears clicking and the rustling of pincers, and he knows at once that he’s not alone. He hauls himself to his feet wearily, hugging himself with one hand, the other drawing a sword. He had heard legends of dungeons down here holding treasures, but there’s nothing of true worth to him down here. Only a pile of gold, a cracked disc and the remains of an already looted set of horse armour, none of which are useful to him. By now, he’s discovered an alternate way to get the keys - the pearls - he needs, but hunting Endermen is becoming more and more difficult as he wanders the land; the creatures are rare, usually solitary, and avoid Strays like the plague. He’s resorted to crawling into dungeons and tunnels in desperate, needy search of eyes left behind by those who came before him. 

Despite himself, he’s lingering, deliberately avoiding the inevitability of his mission.

He knows where he will have to drag himself next, and it terrifies him. 

The realm of fire and brimstone beckons to him.

Dream can still put it off, for now, but with every passing heartbeat, he knows that Sapnap is waiting for him. He has to take the risk soon. 

He has to take action. 

Suppressing his shivers and shudders, Dream limps from the dungeon into the cave, weaving around crumbling rocks, tiny streams and jagged walls - and where a giant spider lunges from the shadows with beady eyes flashing, Dream rises to meet it.

* * *

At sixteen, the heir of Assassins is still waiting. 

He no longer has to battle his guilt - no such thing exists. He has a motivation now, a drive. The more he kills, the greater he is, the more money he earns. The more money he has in his grasp, the better his life will be when he runs away, so he can’t afford to be anything but merciless when his future is on the line. He doesn’t give too much thought to his escape itself, since he relies so heavily on Dream for that, and it has been years since the Stray boy left his city to chase a myth.

So many months since their promise have passed, but Sapnap clings to that vow, continues to hope and pray that Dream is coming back for him. He’ll come back. He wouldn’t just leave Sapnap behind. Surely, he meant something to the boy of Winter, something more than their quick banter and rooftop chases - surely it was all real?

Sapnap wouldn’t forget so easily. 

And he trusts that Dream wouldn’t either. 

At sixteen, Sapnap has earned himself a reputation. In the tense hierarchy of the Keep, outside of missions, he attacks first and asks questions later. He is bold, and brash; his impatience waiting for someone who never comes makes him restless and volatile, always poised to fight at a single sideways glance.

George makes the innocent yet fatal mistake of telling a story about a distrustful Stray that he battled at fourteen, claiming that they were trying to steal his food. Laughs at Sapnap when he protests, somewhat meekly, that there’s nothing wrong with Strays, or any other creature, for that matter.

“I’m not saying there is,” George says coolly. “I’m only telling the truth.”

“You’re just lyin’ for attention. As if you actually were brave enough to fight a Stray. He probably beat your ass.”

“He?” George’s smile is triumphant. “What’s with you and Strays? Got a crush on one or something?” 

Sapnap launches himself at him. 

He pins George to the ground and has his fist raised, George slamming his knees up into his stomach angrily, shouting curses at him. Cheers erupt from around him as his classmates scramble to watch. Fights are encouraged here. His hand fumbles over George’s jaw, his cheek, wrestling with him, trying to shove him into the floor and keep him helpless, even as he fights back. He lifts one fist, even as George’s hand connects with his nose and his head reels -

He feels arms wrap around his waist and tug him back. Bad - who has been happy to take the role of a mentor of sorts for him - with his hood secured around his face, dragging him away. Ant scampers over to help, and hauls him off George. 

The seconds are blurred, his heartbeat drowning out his senses, but he catches a blurry sight of George’s face bloody and swollen, and grins in satisfaction. Sapnap glances at his damp fists. As his adrenaline shudders away, he feels the buzz of pain in his nose, the dull ache across his stomach where George kicked him, and his attention wanders to the crowd gathered around him, mostly fellow teens living in the Keep, exchanging gold from eager bets.

Logically, he has no reason to hate George. He’s just one of many spoiled brats at the Keep. But his impulses, his instincts, tell him otherwise, and he burns with irrational rage. 

“Sapnap, calm down.” Bad is hauling him away, already peering anxiously at his injuries, calculating how to patch him up. “ _ Sapnap.”  _

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Ant trails them down the hallway as Bad helps Sapnap to move away, as far away from George as they can get without risking another fight. They don’t exactly understand Sapnap, but that’s fine. He doesn’t know them, either, not really, and he has no interest in them beyond how they could be useful to him in the future. He catalogues their assets, strengths and weaknesses, but he couldn’t ever call them  _ close  _ to him. They’re his allies, and temporary ones, at that, but he isn’t sure if he’d call them his friends. Not yet, anyway. 

If he calls them his friends, it will be even harder to leave the Keep when Dream comes back for him.

* * *

At sixteen, the son of a Stray takes his first steps into the Nether.

He barely feels the heat. He breathes in the smoke, and lets it cloud his lungs, as if it could kill him. His sIlver skin is dry and cracked, and whilst he knows he should be relieved that he’s out of the cold, back to a place where the Winter inside of him can cancel out the insufferable Summer. 

He’s running out of time to get back to the one he left behind. 

But he feels like time is the one thing he never really had. 

The stones under his feet are aflame. Dream bends down, balancing one hand on his knees, one hand stretched out to let the tip of the fire lick at his fingers. And as he moves it lower and lower, and lets his hand bathe in the harsh, angry glow, he watches the ice in his hand melt away. Silver turns into tanned skin - human  _ skin.  _

He lets the fire eat at him, and where he expects to feel some kind of pain to wake him up, there is nothing but emptiness.

* * *

At seventeen, the heir of Assassins is losing hope.

Killing has now been his habit, his game, for years, and he’s now had time to hone his skills, to make himself into a weapon. He still allows himself to hope and pray, but he keeps a tight leash on his dependence on his Stray friend’s vow. With every passing day, he dares to wander the streets of his city - the city he still strolls as if he owns every brick - and waits for a figure that will never appear.

He usually avoids the rooftops like a plague. 

But one dark night, he finds himself crawling onto a balcony of the Keep, and hauling himself onto the tiles, and with shaky legs, he runs. He imagines there is a swift, sly figure racing alongside him, weaving around him playfully, and he soars over the stars. When he leaps, it’s that aching, yearning in his chest that he’s so badly missed: the heartbeat of the plunge where he’s uncertain if he’ll even clear the jump. He does - he always does - but it’s the fact that he doesn’t trust himself that makes it fun. 

Without even meaning to, he stumbles on the peak of the roof where Dream first made that vow. 

The vow that still hasn’t been fulfilled. 

He begins climbing, fighting the sudden dread filling his heart. It won’t be fulfilled. It never will. Why would Dream come  _ back  _ for a hot-headed human boy who never even said he  _ liked  _ him? If Dream had the opportunity to chase the legends that raised him, he wouldn’t turn back on his behalf. 

Foolish to think he ever  _ would _ .

As he hauls himself over the peak onto the roof he freezes, struck helpless by the figure sitting cross-legged under the stars, nothing but a dark silhouette against the moon.

Before he can even speak, a voice cuts through the emptiness without its owner even turning their head. “Come to damage my pretty face some more?”

The figure stands, and George leans into the moonlight, hands tucked behind his back. Somehow, his words don’t hold their usual bite. 

“Pretty, my ass. As if I followed you up here,” Sapnap sneers. “I just…” 

“Just… come here often? For fun?” 

“It’s none of your business, really.”

“I do.” George’s voice is cool. “I come here often, so I know  _ you  _ don’t.” 

“I used to.” 

“So you came to kick me out of here?”

“I didn’t come for you.” Sapnap would never do anything for George, he tells himself, and forces a scowl. George just sits back down. 

“If you’re going to leave me alone, then do it now.” 

Sapnap wants to go, but he doesn’t move. 

Slowly, tentatively, he sits down a metre away from George, eyeing him. “Why are you out here?” 

“Wouldn’t  _ you  _ like to know.” 

“Yes,” he says without thinking, without considering the implications, “I would.” 

George visibly hesitates, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. But Sapnap just sits back and waits coolly. He’s surprised at himself - why would he even let him stay in this sacred place, this precious thing that used to belong to him and him alone? Isn’t this his moment to protect? He must not be the only one running from something.

“I still hate you,” George blusters, but then, with his voice hushed, he starts to talk.

* * *

At seventeen, the heir of Assassins catches sight of a gleaming emerald eye fixed in the throne of his father as he lounges lazily in the Keep. 

He remembers what Dream stole all those years ago, and what he’s been searching for. 

“Sapnap!” 

He turns. George has had a growth spurt in the past months, tall and lanky and awkward on his feet. He still won’t abandon his silly round glasses that he has propped on his hair. He leans in the doorway, a hand loosely resting against his hip. 

Sapnap told himself not to keep venturing close to George. It would be easier to ignore him when he’s so insufferable - but so much more fun to taunt and tease him. So he grins in answer. “What?”

“A group of us are going down to the markets now. Coming?” 

Sapnap only lets himself stare at the eye for another second. 

It doesn’t matter anymore.

Dream isn’t coming back. 

He pointedly turns his back on the throne, jogging after George. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

* * *

At seventeen, the heir of Assassins turns his back on the hope that Dream is ever coming back.

* * *

At sixteen, the son of a Stray is back in the city. 

In the day, he returns to those old cobbled streets, the marketplace. Wherever he’s met Sapnap before, he hesitates for hours, leaning against walls in the shadows of alleys, and when he doesn’t come, he moves to the next. And the next. 

He waits for a familiar figure that never emerges.

In the night, he takes to the sky, and paces under the moon. The rooftops are empty and scarce. There are no lingering memories here - not anymore. All Dream grasps is a sudden, cruel sense of defeat. It’s been years. Sapnap probably doesn’t even remember his promise - probably doesn’t remember  _ him.  _

Still, he has to know. 

At night, he sneaks onto the roof of the Keep - and he’s no assassin. Every footstep feels like he’s damning himself, every brush of his wolf pelt against the tiles an alarm for whoever is keeping watch. Quietly, he lowers himself onto a balcony, where the dim glow of lanterns shines through a window. He folds himself against the wall, and risks a peek through the glass. 

Instantly, his eyes know who to find in the crowd. It’s a dinner of sorts, hosted in a throne room cleared to space the young assassins, and sitting at a round table is Sapnap himself, his eyes just as bright as Dream remembers them. His cloak is dark now, fitted easily to his body; it’s clear that he’s where he belongs. There’s a lanky, brown-haired boy with oval-shaped glasses sitting next to him, and on his other side are two more boys, one with feline features and the other hooded and cloaked in darkness.

The boys laugh wildly over some joke, and Dream tries to ignore the jealous pounding in his heart urging him to move, to let Sapnap see him.

He’s happy. Content. So he’s settled into his role as an assassin, after all. He looks regal, elegant - like any heir should. 

He’s brimming with unmoderated joy, and who is Dream to crush that, to take him away now? Maybe their promise means nothing to him anymore, and that’s okay. 

He can see the End alone.

That’s when his gaze travels - to the throne, where Sapnap’s father rests, slumped over slightly, and behind him, an Ender Pearl nestled deep in the back of the golden chair like a trophy. His eyes go wide, greedy, eager. 

This Keep took Dream’s friend, and now he will take something in return. He crawls back onto the roof, on his knees, chin to the moon, and waits for the night to swell and the hall to clear. 

He has something else he needs now, although nothing could ever replace Sapnap, he’ll steal whatever fills that sense of emptiness in him. 

He needs the pearl.

* * *

At sixteen and seventeen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins meet again.

The hall is empty; once Sapnap’s father dismisses himself, the assassins begin to flicker away, some in eager groups, some in tender pairs, others alone. Ant leaves with his boyfriend; Bad leaves alone, content to spend his night resting. It leaves George and Sapnap alone, sitting quietly, neither of them interested in talking, both of them somehow wanting to shatter the quiet. It’s hard to tell how he feels about George, most days. 

They get along, for the most part. Other times, Sapnap could throttle him for merely existing. It’s a fragile balance, and he’s fairly certain that the feeling is mutual.

Tonight, he’s less inclined to throttle and more content with him just being there, sitting beside him quietly and complacently. 

George is the first to kick off from the table, as if realising that they’re the last ones in the hall. As he turns to leave, he glances over his shoulder at Sapnap. “Oh, aren’t you coming…?” 

“Do you want me to?” He stands. 

“I mean…” 

“Where would we go?” There’s something so risky about being alone with George. 

“To the roof?” 

It still feels illegal to set foot on what once was Dream’s place, but he nods, and trails George. 

They’re in the middle of the hallway when George stops, hands fumbling in his cloak. “Shit - my dagger. I think I dropped it.”

“How do you just  _ drop  _ your dagger?” 

“It’s been in my hand for most of the night,” George snaps. “Precautions, and all of that. I think I dropped it for a second when I stood up.  _ Damn  _ it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sapnaps says, shrugging. “I’ll go and get it.” 

“It’s fine-” 

“It’s not fine, George, and you know fully well that you won’t shut up for the rest of the night until you get it back.  _ Hang on.”  _

He walks into the throne room and the world falters. It’s the feeling of leaping from a rooftop - but he never lands. It’s breathless. It’s a thrill. 

It’s  _ him.  _

“You-” 

He’s moving, but Dream holds out a hand, and it chains him to the floor. 

“Dream-”

“Sapnap.  _ Sapnap.”  _ Dream’s tone is urgent. In a flood of confusion, Sapnap pauses to look at him, really take him in, for the first time in - what, years? It’s impossible to mistake him. His face has hardened, his hair lighter, but those eyes are always the same. One of his hands is poised on his father’s throne - a hand that is so tanned it’s almost red, rippling with scars. His eyes are wide, as if he’s been caught in an act of crime.

“Oh my God, Dream,  _ your hand.”  _

“Oh. That.” His voice is awkward, sheepish… apologetic? As if it would be a hindrance to even come. “Yes, I… I burned it.” 

“But you’re half-stray. How…?”

“It’s - it’s a long story.” 

It’s that simple phrase that shatters his patience and he’s running to crash into Dream. His hug sends them crashing into the floor, his grip tight against his pelt. “You came back. You actually came back-”

“Sapnap?” 

It’s George, in the doorway, his eyes wide. “That’s a - you’re a -” 

He scrambles to their table to retrieve his dagger from the floor, waving it as Sapnap bounds to his feet, trying to keep his voice hushed. “George, no - don’t - it’s just Dream!”

“ _ Just Dream?  _ I don’t-” 

“I know him!”

“He’s a  _ thief!”  _

“No, he’s…” He looks to Dream and sees him backing away, the pearl from his father’s throne tight in his palm. “He’s…”

A thief, stealing from his father.

Dream’s gaze is helpless. “I’m sorry…” 

“Dream-” 

“Not another step!” George snarls. “Or I’ll start yelling for help, and then you’ll be  _ dead. _ ” 

“ _ That’s  _ George?” Dream says, incredulous, and despite everything, he flashes a cold grin. “I can see why you always hated him.” 

  
“ _ Excuse me?”  _

“I  _ don’t _ ,” Sapnap says, blinking.  _ Not anymore.  _ It’s the first time he realises this, and it makes him hesitate. Long enough for Dream to keep walking back. He reaches the balcony doors, hand fumbling for the handle. 

“Dream?” His voice is suddenly small. “Where…?” 

“I can’t stay.” 

“But I’m coming with you… right?” 

“You’re  _ going?”  _ Despite himself, George seems defeated. “Wait-”

“No, I - I don’t know -” 

“You’re not,” Dream says suddenly, not a command, but merely a comment. He’s seen Sapnap at dinner, seen his friends, his responsibility. Seen how he’s found a place he belongs. “Sapnap, you…” 

“You didn’t come back for me.” 

“I did-” 

“You came for  _ that.”  _ He gestures wildly to the pearl gripped in his hand. “Can’t I go with you anymore? Is that it?” 

“I promised you, didn’t I?” 

“It’s been years. I didn’t know - didn’t think -” 

“You seem happy. Why should I ruin that now?”

“I still want to go with you.” 

George bursts forward to step in front of him, holding out his dagger. “Sapnap, don’t - don’t trust him. Don’t go near him.” 

“I’m not hurting him! Why would I hurt my friend!?” 

“You left for years!” Sapnap protests. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you’d ever…”

“Did you stop believing in me? Is that it? It didn’t matter how long it took. I was always going to come back for you, but… but you looked so  _ happy,  _ and I thought…” 

“He’s fine where he is,” George snaps. 

“You don’t know a damn thing!” 

“George, it’s okay,” Sapnap hisses. “Go to bed, or something, I don’t know, just… stay  _ away.”  _

Dream takes the opportunity to lunge for the door and George tackles him; the pair of them go sprawling on the concrete balcony, wrestling desperately to try and pin each other down. Dream is trying not to fight back and failing, raking his claws across George’s cheeks. Sapnap is startled by the fury burning in George’s eyes to protect him. 

To do what he thinks is right. Against Sapnap, he’s a pain in the ass. With him, he’s… a force to be reckoned with. 

“Stop, stop! Don’t hurt him!” 

George’s dagger clatters to the ground, his hands closing around Dream’s throat and squeezing.

“ _ George!”  _

_ Not Dream. Anyone but Dream -  _

Sapnap is on the ground, uselessly pulling at George’s legs, his waist, trying desperately to drag him off of his friend. He spits and swears, but George’s grip only tightens. “Don’t go near him!”

“George, stop it!”

  
Dream’s hands flail and fumble on the ground - his fingertips brush the hilt of George’s discarded dagger. 

George squeezes. 

Dream drives the dagger into his chest.

Sapnap cries out as George falls, his hands already grasping at the dagger, at the blood dripping through his white shirt. He drops to his knees, legs curled awkwardly underneath him, blinking heavily. 

“Shit- don’t pull it out -  _ don’t-”  _

“I’m sorry,  _ I’m sorry.  _ He was killing me - I-” 

“Get out of here!” Sapnap shouts, hands fumbling over George and coming away damp with his blood - George, swaying where he sits. “Don’t pass out on me, you ass-”

Dream’s on his feet, and his wolf pelt tumbles from his shoulders. “Sapnap, I-”

“Just go, Dream, before someone sees you in the Keep.” 

“But I-” 

“ _ Go!”  _

Dream scrambles onto the railing and vanishes into the shadow, and even when he’s gone, Sapnap swears he can still hear his heartbeat, his panicked breathing. His wolf pelt is curled on the concrete - he doesn’t want to bring himself to touch it, but then his fingers tighten into a fist around the ragged fur anyway.

“Hold on, George, hold on, we’ll get help. You’ll be okay.” 

In a rush of terror, he realises that George can’t die - not when he hasn’t apologised for every stupid thing he’s said in any of their childish, naive fights. And he’d promise him that he wouldn’t die, if he wasn’t so sick of waiting for promises, watching the sands of time drain from beneath his feet, that he refuses to consider such a vow. There’s no choice anymore. He  _ won’t  _ die. 

He hauls George to his feet, struggling with his weight for a moment - in one hand, he takes Dream’s wolf pelt and drags it behind him. George’s head drops onto his shoulder and hangs there, helpless.

Sapnap begins the long walk back into the walls of the Keep, calling out for help. 

* * *

At sixteen, the son of a Stray thinks he is a murderer. 

No one comes looking for him. 

No one confirms if George is alive or dead. 

So he can only imagine that he’s ruined everything. After all of it, he still has the Ender Pearls. He has the blaze rods. 

If their promise is shattered, there’s only one thing left to do - to find what he’s been searching for for all of his years. 

* * *

At seventeen, the heir of Assassins sits at George’s bedside and waits.

Prays. 

Promises.

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassins is summoned by his father for a new mission. He is joined by Bad and Ant - Ant, because Bad practically begged on his hands and knees to let him come, and Bad, because he has proven himself dozens of times over already. 

It’s been a while since he’s had a chance to do anything real. Anything to distract him from the cold truth. He’s eager, reckless. It makes him dangerous. 

His father briefs them on their target - a threat to the Keep itself and even the city submitted anonymously, embarking on a delusional quest. It’s their task to hunt him and kill him before he gets anywhere near what he calls a  _ stronghold. _

“One could,  _ hypothetically,  _ enter the portal using the legendary Ender eyes - they act as keys. They unlock a path to… er… the End.” 

_ Keys.  _

_ The End?  _

Sapnap tries not to look like the world is crumbling before his very eyes, but he’s always been readable, and Bad flashes him a concerned sideways glance.

From behind them, the door slams shut. A figure slinks out of the darkness, voice cold and unforgiving. “Our target is a boy with pale white hair, and silver skin in parts.” 

_ No.  _

Sapnap lifts his head, eyes widening. He can’t do a damn thing as George walks into the room, his gait straight despite the pain he must be in. He can’t take a few steps without his chest twisting in pain, most days, but he endures it in front of Sapnap’s father. He’s alive - that’s what matters.

That was all Sapnap had ever dared to hope for. He can’t complain, not anymore. 

George fixes him with a long look. “Our target has heterochromia - one eye is green, the other is blue.” 

“George,” Bad says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “What are you…?”

“I’m a part of your team,” he says, flushing. “I… I asked to be placed alongside you, and so I was.” 

His smile is awkward, but his eyes gleam, and Sapnap knows this isn’t about the money. 

It’s about vengeance. It truly hits him then: he’s hunting Dream. 

Dream, his friend. 

Dream, the maker of broken promises. Dream, the boy who stabbed George. And Hell, Sapnap doesn’t even know what George is to him, most days. He couldn’t even keep his own promise - George’s close call brushing against death didn’t stop them from arguing, and they certainly didn’t bond over the heartfelt moment saving his life. It took George months to even look at him again. But he’ll never forget the eyes of the cornered wolf stabbing his friend.

And he’ll never forget the sight of George’s fingers at his friend’s neck. Prepared to kill. 

And he’d do it again. He will. 

He must.

Sapnap watches, helpless, as promises of money dance around his head, and he nods his agreement.

* * *

At seventeen, the son of a Stray sees figures across the end of the valley, and knows his time is up. It was only a matter of weeks until he was pursued - although it’s sooner than he expected for him to be chased down, he supposes there’s nothing to be done. It would be easier if he wasn’t alone - if he had Sapnap with him - 

No. 

He can’t think about Sapnap. Not now.

He draws his sword and turns his horse sharply, one hand reaching for her dark neck to soothe her, leaning forward in the saddle.

To flee or to fight?

Both end badly. He knows from experience, by now, that he is strong, and there is power in his cold, wicked hands. Whoever his pursuers are, he thinks he has a chance of emerging from a battle victorious, especially on horseback. 

He doesn’t have time or promises, not anymore, but he has his own skills. 

It’s enough for him to spur his horse into a canter towards the shapes bobbing on the opposite side of the valley, his body bathed in the warm, calming glow of the sunset. He leans forward - into a gallop, hooves pounding into his heartbeat, every hasty breath. Closer, and closer, towards his fate.

His destiny, even. 

One shape pulls ahead of its companions, someone on horseback urging their horse towards Dream. The red glow of the sunset lights his opponent on fire, a dim light flickering in and out of view, a lantern floating in the mist.

The shape burns, and a face erupts from that soft orange light, bold eyes gleaming.

Those eyes…

They strike him between his ribs, whisper vows against his neck that he knows he’ll never keep. Cannot keep as long as he lives. Those eyes singe him.

With a sharp tug, Dream pulls his horse to a halt.

Across the valley, he sees Sapnap do the same, a weapon hanging limply by his side. His body is covered in a thick, furry coat - no,  _ his  _ coat, his wolf pelt that he left behind at sixteen, his hands red with George’s blood. Sapnap wears it like a trophy, a prize. 

Clinging to a memory of him and making it  _ his.  _

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

The two of them watch each other, one braced on either side of the sunset. The amber glow that lights their helpless expressions lingers for a moment, enough for Dream to raise a single hand in silent greeting.

Sapnap echoes the movement. 

And just like that, the sunset vanishes behind the mountain range curled lazily around them, the light winks away, and the spell is broken. Dream’s hand falls.

Another horse comes to rest alongside his old friend, a thin figure drawing a sword. These are assassins that don’t care about stealth, not anymore - not when there are old debts to be collected and promises to be avenged.

The figure raises a sword into the air. 

Dream unslings his bow and draws an arrow, aiming at the skinny figure he’s now sure is George. “Don’t fucking move!” he shouts, the breeze carrying his voice across the distance between them. “Don’t move a fucking muscle,  _ George _ , or I’ll shoot!”

“As if you’re in the position to make threats, Stray!” 

He shoots, his aim deliberately off. George’s horse skitters slightly, the arrow disappearing into the emptiness. 

“Half-stray,” he mutters under his breath, then lifts his voice again. “Next time, I won’t miss. I’ll only talk to Sapnap! Him, and him alone, George! Don’t try anything!” 

He hears hushed, angry voices in the distance, and swears under his breath. What is he  _ doing _ , toying with his old friend when he should be  _ running,  _ far away from here, away from this kind of distraction.

A moment later, a lone figure on his horse ventures out into the valley. 

It’s his Sapnap, the one he spent his days running across rooftops with, the one that shaped his childhood. The same dirty assassin boy he met by the well that fateful day in the desert.

Or it would be, if not for the pelt that cloaks him, and the sword he holds in one hand as he brings his horse close.

“Dream.” His voice cracks. “I… hi.” 

“Hi.” He’s suddenly breathless, unsure of how to continue, what to say to make it right. “I’m, uh… I’m sorry about George.”

“Well, as you can see, he’s fine.” 

“I didn’t realise you cared about him at all. From what  _ you  _ told me, he was insufferable.”

“Well, when you were gone, I had to amuse myself with other people. I have good company now.” His eyes gleam. “Don’t worry, Dream.  _ That’s  _ all in the past now.”

His gut twists. “You mean, you forgive me?” 

“For trying to kill George, yeah. Sure. He was trying to kill you, too, so…” 

There’s an unspoken ending to that sentence. “But… but you don’t forgive me for anything else?” 

In a silent answer, Sapnap kicks his horse into action and he begins to circle Dream, his sword outstretched. “It’s always gonna be  _ us _ , isn’t it? For the rest of our damned lives. It’s always gonna be me versus you. The Assassin and the Stray.” 

“Half-stray.” 

“I know.” Sapnap gives a shattered smile, and attacks. 

Their blades connect for the first time, and instantly, Dream knows he should have run. Would rather be a coward than endure the wicked, smoldering gaze that Sapnap chains him with, than to look at his face and know that that’s not his friend.

Not anymore.

* * *

At seventeen and eighteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins come to terms that they will never have the innocence of their blissful childhood back.

“You know how much this means to me,” the half-stray boy pleads. 

“I thought I meant a lot to you, too-” 

“You  _ do.”  _

“Then why-” His argument is cut off by the wild angle of his sword, slicing up Dream’s forearm. He feels the blood trickling down his greying skin, down to his burned wrist, and grits his teeth. Sapnap isn’t playing. Not anymore. “Are you just greedy, Dream? Is that it? I could give you all the riches you want, if it’ll make you stay with me. Why do you have to chase this… this  _ End.”  _

Dream isn’t ready to answer that. 

“Maybe you just like to run away from anything that’s  _ good.” _

“I’m going to kill you,” Dream spits, just another vow he’s bound to break.

“Good.  _ Try.  _ Just try.” 

And Dream does.

* * *

At seventeen and eighteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins watch each other on opposite sides of a burning river.

He tries, really he does.

Again and again, he’ll try to kill Dream. But neither of them could die so easily, so peacefully. There’s so much left unspoken. So much they have to live for. 

They’re bloodied and bruised, the both of them. Dream watches the group gather at the foot of a ravine, huddled together. Any flashes of a smile are quenched quickly by the realisation that they are trapped. So is Dream; he’s curled in a tiny crevice in the wall, peering down at them. 

He watches the one they call Ant press a collection of small glass pots into Sapnap’s hand and his eyes narrow. He doesn’t even want to look at George - at him, quiet and contemplative, lazily trying to mine obsidian glittering at the edges of the lava river, and so he ignores the brown haired boy and his white glasses. Even the one named Bad doesn’t need his attention. They all have the same goal, all being paid for the same thing. It’s Sapnap he cares about, always Sapnap.

The boy he once made a vow to is watching him, meeting his eyes. His desperate, needy gaze pleads with him, begging him to be quiet.

Dream stiffens, poised to run, but Sapnap merely gives him a long look and turns his back, pausing only once to bend down and leave something on the ground.

As the hunters move further down the river, and Dream emerges from his hiding place, he finds what Sapnap left behind - a pair of gleaming potions, fizzing slightly, and as he bends to investigate, he’s suddenly certain that this was no accident. 

Fire resistance is rare, and expensive, and nothing to merely leave behind in some clumsy mix-up. It’s the kind of thing to keep a close eye on.

And it’s strange to think that some deep, twisted urge in Sapnap wants to  _ help  _ him rather than harm him, despite their differences. Strange - and disturbing. 

  
  


Disturbing to think that a shred of him wants to help Sapnap, too.

* * *

At seventeen and eighteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins are alone.

“I miss you,” Sapnap says quietly. 

“Is that why you left me those potions?” 

“I…” His gaze clouds. “Why do you really want to get to the End, Dream?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. 

And he can’t make any more promises he knows he won’t keep.

So he just says, “I can’t let you come with me.” 

Sapnap looks him in the eye. “I’m being paid to kill you, Dream.” 

“Yes.” 

“And I’ll do it.” 

“You can try.” 

That infinite playful gleam in his eye makes Sapnap’s heart ache. 

He gets to his feet. “So be it, then.”

* * *

At seventeen and eighteen, respectively, the son of a Stray and the heir of Assassins both let themselves burn. 

Dream jumps first. It’s always been the fall that he loves, the same thing he taught Sapnap to enjoy - to  _ feel  _ rather than think. He jumps, and for a heartbeat, he’s plunging into an empty red sky and all he feels is the adrenaline and the soft cry that bursts from his lips.

Then he’s under.

Instantly, the lava is a blanket over his cold Stray’s body, warm and tentative. 

The world is so different down here. Murky and dim, trapped in a dark, foggy red room. Blind. He fumbles around, slightly, kicking his legs. It’s still; quiet.

The lava stings, slightly, but he swallows the feeling, watching shards of ice splinter from his skin and melt away. He watches his skin lose its silver hue and darken. It’s like holding his hand over an open flame - something he’s done so many times by now, the tip of a candle singing his skin, but only now it encases him. He feels his cheeks flush with colour, his face vibrant. His eyes glow; Spring and Winter brighten, if only for a moment. 

The pain is comforting. The fire resistance only does so much. It’s for survival, not pleasure or aesthetic. 

The lava explodes around him, and it’s Sapnap’s face that floats towards him, eyes wide.

_ He came. He came for me. _

_ The way I didn’t for him. _

Sapnap’s hands reach for him, and he curls into his touch. He gives himself up for his friend - lets his head meet his palm. Lets his own hands venture to Sapnap and pull him close, pulling him into an infinite, final hug.

He lets it happen.

He never could have fought it. 

And just as an angry assassin once did to him, Sapnap’s hands close around his neck. He merely lifts his chin. 

* * *

  
  


“One of us is dying here, Dream.”

It’s so quiet.

“Good.”

* * *

At twelve, the heir of Assassins trips for the first time on the rooftops of the city he thinks he owns and bursts into messy tears when he sees his grazed knee, blood trickling down his leg. It takes a few moments for Dream to glance over his shoulder and skid to a halt, startled.

“Oh.” He seems confused. “Are you…?” 

Sapnap hastily tries to stifle his tears, tries to seem brave, because he  _ is  _ brave. He’s an assassin who runs with a Stray boy across the sky, and no one could do that and cry over a grazed knee, surely. “I’m fine. I’m okay.” 

“What, do you need me to kiss it better?” he teases. 

“No, no!” 

“I will if that’s what you need.”

“ _ No,  _ I…”

There’s a belligerent silence. 

“Hold on,” Dream says.

Dream rummages in his pockets for a long while, and finally draws out a bandaid, and bends down to press it to the scraped knee. In an instant, Sapnap suddenly feels very small - very young. A childish giggle escapes him. No one would put a  _ bandaid  _ on any wound at the Keep; they’d be forced to endure it. But Dream isn’t anything like the people he knows at the Keep.

“Thank you,” he sniffles, hiccuping slightly. “I’m sorry I slowed you down.” 

“I don’t mind,” Dream says. “It’s okay to fall.” 

“It is?” 

“It takes a while to learn how to run the roofs without tripping. I just learnt when I was younger, is all. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

After a heartbeat, he adds, “do you wanna keep going?” 

“Yes.  _ Yes.  _ Just don’t run too fast for me - please.” 

“Okay, okay!” He’s laughing lightly as he breaks into a jog, slowing slightly so Sapnap can match his pace. “Follow my lead, okay? With me.” 

Breathlessly, he announces each movement before he makes it. 

“Brace.” 

“Leap.” 

“And  _ fall.”  _

Sapnap stumbles again, and Dream’s hand flies out to balance him. They keep running. One foot after the other. 

The assassin leaps, and lands, and does not stumble

Sapnap finds his rhythm, and in an instant of pure, unmoderated joy, he flings out his arms and howls to the sun.

“What’s  _ that  _ for!?” 

“No clue!” 

And after a shrug and a moment to throw his head back, Dream joins him in the childish motion of glee, uniting into a chorus of their youth, their freedom, their bright laughter rivalling the sun;

baying into each jump and whooping into the fall. 

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassins has that memory in his grasp, and he doesn’t let go. He has life between his hands, curled against his palms. 

He has Dream. 

Shards of ice float around them and wink away into emptiness.

Dream’s hands are fists at his chest. He isn’t fighting back.

_ Why isn’t he fighting back?  _

A bolt of panic strikes Sapnap through the heart.

With trembling fingers, he lets go. 

He doesn’t want to die. Not really. Dream doesn’t, either, but even he opens his eyes in surprise, as if he was waiting for death. 

Did he  _ give up? _

“Wha…?” 

“Get out of here.”

“Sapnap-” 

_ “Get out of here!” _

He slams his hands to Dream’s chest, as if he can drive him away with nothing but power, but the lava slows his movements, soothes him. The touch is more gentle and comforting than he intends it to be. He’s sinking, lower and lower.

Falling.

Over their heads, a darkness covers the surface, blocking them from the cool, damp ravine. Encasing them in the red river. Sapnap knows it's his teammates, his friends, who are blearily cheering him on, urging him to take the kill. Trapping Dream in his grasp.

The fire resistance spills from him in frantic bubbles.

Time is the one thing he never had.

In a sudden frantic, urgent motion, Dream is swimming for the wall, hands fumbling with the crumbling cave entrances, his skin peeling and darkening before his eyes, and Sapnap knows his time is up, too. 

“Ant! Bad! George!” His shrieks are muffled. “Help!”

The world goes dark as the obsidian hardens over their heads. Sapnap beats wildly with his firsts, and the lava begins to burn.

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassin watches Dream slip away into the wall, frost spitting from his skin and sinking into the redness. 

He wants him dead, but not like this. 

Never like this. 

Dream will die the right way, or not at all.

A burst of light erupts from above him. He feels hands grasp his wrists, urgent voices washing over him. 

“Grab him!” 

“Sapnap?  _ Sapnap,  _ are you…?” 

“He’s fine,” George spits determinedly. “He has to be.” 

“Oh, my gosh,  _ his skin.”  _

His body is red and steaming, smoking at the edges. He curls on the stones, spitting and coughing, trying to force out the words he so badly needs to say. “I’m sorry, I - I tried -” 

“It’s okay-” 

“You tried-” 

“It was brave to even go down there.” 

Bad and Ant comfort him, hands on his back, soothing him. But George only sits back and gives him a long, knowing look. Blackness creeps in on him; he feels water trickling over his back.

“Keep him cool.”

“Bad. Ant.” They turn to George as he straightens, eyes narrowed. “Go get him.”

“But you-” 

“I’m okay.  _ Go _ . Avenge him.” 

George watches them fetch their weapons and potions, and leave. Sapnap doesn’t see. 

It’s for the best that he doesn’t.

* * *

At seventeen, the son of a Stray is running. The pounding of frantic, eager feet draws closer and closer - and still he runs. 

This time, he chases the sky alone.

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassins gets the news in a letter. 

George crouches beside him, and after a moment, he lets his head rest on his shoulder. Silently, he hands him the parchment, and watches his face dissolve. 

* * *

At seventeen, the son of a Stray is dead.

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassins is alone.

* * *

“Why didn’t you go? I’d think you have more of a reason than anyone…”

For it was Ant who stole Dream’s final breath, but George to stay and never move from Sapnap’s side, a hand around his shoulders.

He’s quiet. 

He tries again. “You could have gone with them.”

“I wouldn’t just leave you behind while you’re in pain.”

“I’d live.”

“No.” George leans against him. “You needed someone to stay.” 

He did. 

He just didn’t expect or want it to be George. 

* * *

At eighteen, the heir of Assassins drops to his knees before a ragged grave in the sand. 

With trembling, tender fingers, he unfastens a wolf pelt from his shoulders and curls it over the stone like a blanket, shielding his memory from the sun. A second later, he drops an old, rusted pocket watch into the folds of the fur. 

It doesn’t even tell the time anymore. 

Sapnap stands. 

“Ready to go?”

He turns to face George, shielding his eyes from the sun with his glasses, standing with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t want to set foot anywhere near this cursed place, but he wouldn’t leave Sapnap alone, even if both of them know he can take care of himself. 

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

He lets his fingers trace the grave stone.

“Until next year,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> it is empty, Achilles  
> so end it all now  
> it's a pointless resistance  
> for you


End file.
